


Surpassing Oneself

by daredevilmoon



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 22:11:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3953629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daredevilmoon/pseuds/daredevilmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas wakes up with the Duke of Crowborough. Missing scene from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1123332/chapters/2264269">Some of These Days</a>, from Thomas's point of view, as suggested on Tumblr.</p><p>  <i>That was the sort of intimacy with which he was well acquainted, things visible and unknowable all the same.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Surpassing Oneself

Thomas stirred without opening his eyes, needing to take a long second to remember where he was; nothing about the situation could have been more different to any of his other mornings. He wondered idly whether he was still dreaming, whether he entirely dared to open his eyes and risk breaking the spell. The utter fancy of the idea shot embarrassment into his guts, prompting him to open his eyes to the early-morning sunlight escaping through the cracks between curtains; despite himself, the embarrassment was replaced by elation he couldn’t find it in himself to fight against.

Yawning, he raised himself slightly from his arm to take in the sight of Philip’s sleep-softened face which he’d missed earlier. It was curious to see him without his usual appraising expression meeting Thomas’s own, without that vibrancy consciousness brought to his features. He looked, despite the stubble, very young; it made Thomas feel very young. Younger even than they were. He ran his thumb along Philip’s jawline and leaned down to press their lips together, softly enough that he only stirred slightly, before Thomas fell back into position against his own arm.

He lay for a while, his free arm over Philip’s chest, tangled in the contentment of the moment which didn’t seem like it was his to feel. It didn’t seem as though they could be said to be flaunting propriety for its own sake - though Thomas enjoyed both the sentiment and the acts of that - but rather inhabiting a moment’s stillness that existed for them alone. A comfort and a quiet that was entirely new and entirely satisfying. He slid his fingers along Philip’s collarbone and rested them over his heartbeat.

His mind flickered a while longer between such sleepy pleasantries and a desperate urge to get up and make the vague motions of beginning the day. A headache was threatening to spill from his temples into his eyes and squeezed them shut, groaning softly. He ran his hand up Philip’s throat, tapping on his jaw briefly to wake him up.

“Philip? Have you got Beecham’s someplace?”

A sleepy hum was the response, one which sounded positive. Thomas waited for any further sort of answer before doubting Philip had actually heard his question through dreams.

“What place would that be?” Thomas asked, smiling as he tapped Philip’s face again. His head lolled in Thomas’s direction until they were face to face, opening his eyes to stare at Thomas blankly. Thomas leaned forward to press their lips together again, pulling away just far enough to follow up with a, “Hmm?”

“What a lovely way to wake,” Philip replied pleasantly, before shutting his eyes again.

“It would be nicer if my head weren’t splitting.”

“What?”

“You were going to tell me where you’ve got Beecham’s,” Thomas said, running his hand through Philip’s hair. He leaned into the touch and was silent a moment, long enough for Thomas to think he’d fallen asleep again. Philip’s brows drew together slightly, though, and he opened his eyes again.

“In the drinks cabinet. In the library.”

“I’ll fetch some,” Thomas said, drawing himself up and onto his knees. Philip turned onto his side, tangling the blanket around his legs even further, and covered his eyes with his forearm. The sight of Philip, naked to mid-thighs, proved another temptation to fight against; he pressed the heel of his hand up Philip’s leg and over the curve of his arse, resting in a dimple on the small of his back. Philip sighed and Thomas smiled in response, removing himself from the bed altogether; there was time for that - and his heart gave a jump at the word - later. When his head, bladder, and cigarette-starved lungs weren’t in a battle for his attentions.

 

 

Once suitably medicated, Thomas lingered in the library for a while longer, glancing to the door before he walked over to the desk whereupon a few letters sat. He read the one on top through a veil of his smoke, taking in the details of some dinner wherein a lady whose name Thomas didn’t recognise had gotten too tight and spilled wine all down her cream frock, bursting into tears. Clearly the Crawleys were hosting the duller sets in London.

The letter ended mid word, ‘truthfu-’ losing its end to a blot of ink; Thomas wondered if that had been when he had arrived. He rather hoped so, hoped too that Philip would send it with the error intact - a private, unsuspecting little thing tying himself to other portions of Philip’s life. That was the sort of intimacy with which he was well acquainted, things visible and unknowable all the same; ink spreading over the paper the same way it drowned his eyes, meaning the same things.

Thomas yawned a great burst of smoke and, heedlessly, pressed his thumb over the blot and drew it down, smearing it slightly. Philip was unlikely to notice, but it would give Thomas a silent satisfaction when he thought of it. Whether his arrival had been the cause or not, he’d gladly stitch that thread.

He let his gaze slip from the desk to the several framed post-cards on the wall behind it, the fact of them making Thomas smirk. No doubt anyone over five-and-twenty would have blanched at the idea of post-cards on the wall in lieu of Great Works and, in a wrong sort of way, they may have been right to. All of them were reproductions of older works, but the sort of Italian works with pretty youths which might have raised eyebrows if they were to be seen. Philip must have had a very select set indeed - judging from the previous night, the fact sat well upon the solider impression Thomas was forming of Philip as each of their meetings progressed. The solid impression which was sleeping not far from where Thomas stood.

Curiously, he didn’t feel the rush to collect each moment with Philip as one to be placed in a catalogue of desire. He should never have expected it, but he was perfectly happy to be looking over Philip’s books alone with the knowledge that their owner, his lover (and what a strange and wonderful thought), was nearby. It was another private moment which Thomas allowed himself to relish, plucking one of the books from the shelf and flipping through it.

The book was something in Greek, though he was, naturally, unsure of what. His eyes ran over the pages as he flipped through, as though capturing the essence of the reading of Greek rather than the knowledge of it. He shut it and studied its spine, hoping it was something more tantalising than the history of government, before replacing it on the shelf.

He looked over the other books, catching sight of those in English which he himself had read or heard of. Some of which, rather like the postcards, Thomas doubted should be so casually displayed - ah, but he checked that thought. A time and a place, he countered. Such as this.

There was, at eye-level, a copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray. There was one he had never read, though he was well aware of its reputation. It would have been hard to be unaware, the author’s name acting as the occasional byword for his particular sin. Thomas removed it from its place, holding onto it as he scanned the rest of the library. The books intrigue seemed to clutch at his hand as he did so, as his fingers met the leather in dull little taps while he walked, and he lost out to the curiosity.

He padded silently back to Philip’s room, slipping into bed beside him. Philip lay on his side, facing away from him, and Thomas situated himself along the headboard, close enough so that his outstretched thigh met Philip’s back. Thomas sat still for a moment, feeling the soft pressure of Philip’s breathing against him.

 

  
The situation wasn't entirely conducive to reading, the heat of Philip’s body winding around his in the already warm summer air and the smell of the night before lingering in the room, yet it seemed to fit the book perfectly. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be read in a sharpened focus, but in situations thrilling and sleepy all at once; the words ebbed and flowed in time with his own slowing breaths, his flickering attention. It seemed an altogether lovely place to be and he doubted Wilde would begrudge him setting the open book in his lap and running his fingers through Philip’s hair.


End file.
